Birds of a Feather
by Dontkillchic
Summary: When an angered Prussian comes storming into the meeting room, most assume Francis was just being annoying again. But what if it's more than simple aggrivation?
1. Love Birds

It was a fair Monday afternoon in March. The misty haze that had that very morning blanketed London in a grey dampness had finally lifted, allowing feeble rays of light of sunlight to warm shivering pedestrians on the pavement below. Amongst the bustle of bodies, business men and women wove expertly though the dawdling crowd and shot past buskers – juggling and dancing on street corners – without a second glance. A constant back and forth of commuters and tourists passed on the steps to Tube stations; those who made way for hurrying workers were thanked with a brief tilt of the hat or a curt nod. It was an average day in the busy city and – just as everything was normal outside – things were shaping up as usual inside as well.

"I've told you already, _frog,_" hissed a man with unnaturally large eyebrows, "that our usual meeting place is undergoing essential maintenance and is unavailable for use at this time!"

"You misunderstood my question, _Angleterre_," replied another man with a chin of stubble and wavy blond hair, "I was curious only as to why you chose the _American embassy_ of all places?"

"Are you trying to insinuate something?"

"Non, non, of course not," chuckled the Frenchman, unable to hide a sly smirk, "I was just curious as to why it even needed to be an embassy at all. And it did need to be one, why not the French one? The Italian embassy is right across the square too, oui?"

"And the Canadian High Commission eh?" came a small voice. Everyone ignored it.

Arthur huffed and furrowed his aforementioned eyebrows. Thinking about it, there wasn't any particular reason why he'd chosen this venue over the others. It was the first one he thought of, that's all. It didn't help that he'd just got off the phone with that over-excitable pup of an American, Alfred, just as his boss contacting him to inform him of the sudden change of venue. It was irrelevant anyway; the American did owe him one after that – quite frankly – disastrous horror movie marathon they'd had last week. He could feel his cheeks heating up at the thought.

He was about to offer a classy and watertight retort ("Bugger off wanker!") to shut the Frenchy up, when the doors practically flew off their hinges as they were slammed open with a deafening bang. All conversations stopped and heads swivelled towards the door.

"Ve~! Ludwig, your brother's here," chirped Feli cheerfully over the silence.

It was indeed Gilbert; the albino man stood panting in the doorway, snow white hair ruffled and windswept. In fact, his overall appearance was far more ragged than usual; he had thrown a black coat haphazardly over an unbuttoned grey polo shirt and had left it unzipped, allowing it to slip off one shoulder. His trousers, though well-fitting, were sagging slightly and had tears across the knees. Thin trickles of blood stood out starkly against pale flesh, falling from grazes on his hands and knee caps, grit and dirt caked the cuts – injuries not at all surprising considering the trails of shoelace from his untied trainers. Perhaps what were most noticeable were his eyes. Usually narrowed in narcissistic smugness, they were now wide and manic with crimson murder. The Italian's cheerful outburst dwindled into a frightened whimper as those scarlet orbs began to drill into him.

"Gilbert, _mon ami?_" came Francis' questioning tones. Gilbert's eyes snapped away from Feli to bore into Francis' azure irises instead. Unperturbed, he continued, "what exactly are you doing 'ere? And where is _ton petit oiseau j-"_ Francis' accented voice was cut off as Gilbert released a feral snarl and launched himself at the Frenchman's throat. This violent development was accepted with varying degrees of alarm; the least came from Arthur – who actually looked rather amused – and the largest, unsurprisingly, from Francis himself.

"_Non, NON! NOT THE FACE!" _he shrieked, though he needn't have worried as Gilbert seemed more focused on throttling him than clawing off his facial features.

Feli had dug his face into Ludwig's arm and was wailing at him to "save big brother", which in turn lead to Lovino screaming at Ludwig for being far too close to his twin. Ludwig himself looked somewhat overwhelmed between the Vargas twins clinging to him and yelling for attention; his older brother was running wild and trying to kill Francis; Arthur was discretely chuckling to himself in the corner and taking pictures on his mobile and... was Vash pulling a pistol out of his pocket? _Were those things even legal here? _

Ludwig could fell his pulse quicken as he sensed some sort of imminent apocalypse. He didn't know who to deal with first: his savage psychopath of a brother or that gun-toting maniac of a Swiss. He figured that since Gilbert was only endangering Francis and Vash was waving his gun around like a lunatic that he should probably deal with the latter first. Anyway, Antonio should stop cooing over his 'cute little Italian tomato' in time to stop Francis asphyxiating. Probably.

Arthur, meanwhile, had decided that the situation really wasn't that humorous at all. He was the host after all and there was a _lot_ of paperwork involved in another country dying under your care. He wouldn't even get the satisfaction of killing the git himself!

He shuffled warily over to the wrestling duo; Francis was still screaming bloody murder and Gilbert was cursing and snarling like a rapid dog. Didn't half give you a bloody headache.

"All right Gilbert, you've had your fun," sighed Arthur and – almost reluctantly – ordered, "let go of the frog before he croaks."

At the sound of mocking laughter from behind him, he grabbed a binder from the table, spun on his heel and lobbed it toward the very American head it was issuing from, "SHUT UP YANK, LIKE YOU COULD DO BETTER!" Turning to face the brawling nations again, he noticed that Francis was now gasping for air on the floor – looking more like a particular amphibian than usual, Arthur noted – and Gilbert's flushed face right up close to his.

"Fun?" Gilbert spat angrily, "you think I was doing this for _fun_?"

Arthur reached up slowly to wipe some flecks of spittle off his face before answering, "Well I assumed so, I thought you were the type who might find that sort of this amus-"

"DUMMKOPF! Nein, this lying bastard here betrayed me! _ME!"_ Gilbert looked aghast at the thought. Arthur glanced down to notice Francis' expression, which pretty much mirrored his own – pretty damn confused.

"Mon ami," Francis wheezed, voice hoarse, "I do not understand."

"Don't screw with me Francis! You know full well what you did!" he screeched and aimed a sharp kick at the fallen man's ribs.

Ludwig took this opportunity to return from Vash, still with a petrified Italian latched to his arm. He placed a firm hand on his brother's shoulder and pulled him back from the Frenchman. Arthur glanced toward the German and rolled his eyes, exasperated, before hoisting froggy to his feet by the back of his suit jacket.

"_Merci, Angleterre_. I knew you loved me really," the man cooed quietly.

"You're already been strangled once today Francis," warned the Brit.

"_Bruder, _explain yourself," ordered Ludwig sternly. Gilbert pouted

"Don't need t' explain myself t-"

"_NOW, Gilbert!"_

He let out a stubborn 'hmph', blowing at the ruffled strands of fringe that were poking him in the eye. He murmured something incomprehensible.

"_Was?"_

"I said he stole Gilbird, okay?" he blurted, glaring at Francis. There was a dramatic gasp.

"You thieving bastard!"

"_Angleterre!"_

"Well, if the glove fits, Frenchy."

Francis lowered his voice to a level and reasonable tone, "You know as well as I do, _mon cher_, that this is just ridiculous."

Arthur scoffed. Ludwig frowned.

"He's right _Bruder_, why would Francis of all people do that? You're good friends, are you not?"

Gilbert squirmed uncomfortably in Ludwig's grasp. All eyes in the room were trained on the five nations and Gilbert let out a shuddering breath to calm himself.

"Well, it wasn't technically theft. But you knew this would happen, didn't you? Knew he would run away like that because of what _you did!"_

Francis' eyes widened in sudden realisation.

"_Mon ami, _you don't mean that-"

"Gilbird fell in love," Gilbert practically sobbed, "with that damn Pierre!"


	2. Flocking Together

**A/N: Awah! Thank you guys for the positive feedback on the last chapter! It really inspired me to get this out as quickly as possible – though updating is going to be somewhat difficult as school just started again, plus I've got to do some route planning for the next chapter…gotta make it accurate right? Urm, the T rating becomes a tad more obvious in this chapter – it's mostly going to be for swearing, sorry to disappoint, it's just that I write this in a notebook that I just end up lying around and anyone can read it so…**

**Anywho, I hope you enjoy this chapter~**

**Disclaimer that I forgot in the last chapter oops: I do not own Hetalia in any way, shape, or form. **

**Flocking together**

"Soooo," drawled Alfred, breaking the awkward silence, "now what do we do?"

No one answered for the longest of times; the nations preferred just to squirm awkwardly in their seats.

The meeting had ended about half an hour ago; Arthur had been forced to call it a day after Gilbert collapsed and began wailing loudly about how "nobody loved him" and that everything was "just so unawesome". Despite everyone's best attempts to calm him down, he would not stop his tantrum and when Arthur had politely asked if he needed to go outside for some fresh air all Arthur got in return was a punch to the face and a bleeding nose. After that, his laments only got louder.

It was Feliciano who finally spoke. "It's obvious, isn't it! We need to look for Gilbird and Pierre!" Arthur scoffed loudly.

"And how do you propose we do that exactly," he asked, incredulous, "London isn't exactly a wooden shack on a beach; it's a capital city. Coupled with the fact that we are looking for _birds-_"

"While I would _love_ to agree with you, _Angleterre, _you are missing something blindingly obvious. Birds or not, we are dealing with two hearts ensnared with _l'amour_! I do not think we will find them in many of the grimy back alleys and side streets that make up your precious capital.

"_Non,_ what we need to do is sweep the city for the most romantic or touristy locations. That way we save time and we'll be more likely to find the two...erh, "love birds'," Francis finished and smirked slightly.

There was a collective groan and everyone except Francis ended up with their head in their hands. Arthur muttered something through his digits.

"_...hate...when...right," _was all Francis caught. His rye smile widened. He knew the Brit loved it really.

Gilbert sniffed; the disgusting sounds of snot being pulled back through the nose making the room turn to face him. He swept his gaze across their faces, realising suddenly that these were the only people who had stayed behind to help him.

Arthur: the stubborn Brit with too large eyebrows that claimed he was only helping because it was his country, but the worried crinkle in his brow and faint redness in his cheeks had told otherwise.

Alfred: the excitable American that wouldn't pass up the chance to act like a hero – something Gilbert had found irritating until now. His glasses were glinting in the afternoon sun that was streaming in through the windows. It was so suiting that he was the only on room sitting in a patch of the natural lighting.

Next was Ludwig – stoically listening to the back and forth, temple notably pulsing. He was always stern and serious like this; it was surprising that he was the younger of the two brothers.

Bouncing up and down next to him sat the Vargas twins; the useless Italians tagging along to be with – and to keep an eye on – Ludwig.

Antonio. That seemingly clueless and carefree Spaniard's eyes had gone hard with determination when Gilbert had broken down, a site so alien it was difficult to miss even through squinted and teary vision.

Then last, but by no means least, there was Francis. Francis.

"_Mon ami?_" the man in question was whispering to him and shaking his arm gently. Gilbert started as he realised he'd been staring into Francis' blue eyes for much too long. He flushed hotly – the blotchy redness stood out, painfully obvious, against his chalky complexion.

"It's nothing," he whispered back, and he stood to address the room: "I…I'm just really grateful you guys are helping me – even though it's kind of an honour to be in the presence of someone as awesome as me. Gilbird, he…," he trailed off for a moment, losing that cocky edge to his voice when he continued, "he means a lot to me…thank you." He sat down hurriedly. He blinked furiously in quell the surge of fresh tears he felt rising – though no one noticed one solitary tear, pale on pale, roll down his cheek.

"_Ahem_," Ludwig cleared his throat, "if we are conducting a search then we should still split into groups – I'd say a maximum of three in size."

The room suddenly became tense. Clutching at the arm rests, lips pursed and eyes wide, the nations' eyes darted over their fellows. All was still for a moment. But only a moment.

"_I am not going with frog-face,"_ blurted Arthur, "and I am _definitely_ not going either 'hero-boy'." He jerked his head towards Alfred at the word 'hero'. Alfred pouted.

"Like I'd wanna go with you…old-man," he murmured, hurt evident in his voice, "you'd hobble along so slowly that we wouldn't get anywhere."

"Arrogant little bugger!"

"Sticks and stones, Arthur. Though considering how frail you are, you couldn't even hurt me with a sledgehammer."

"That's a load of bollocks and you know it." Their voices where rising.

"_You're_ a load of bollocks!"

"You don't even know what that me-"

"BOTH OF YOU, _SHUT UP_!" barked a red faced Ludwig. The two bickering nations fell silent. "Now, if you need to release your 'tensions' that badly, there is a very handily placed supply cupboard just across the hall. If not, you can sit down and _be quiet_."

Arthur and Alfred looked at each other.

They both sat down.

"Now, if you're quite finished, then I'll be putting everyone into groups. I seem to be the only one who has any sense around here," huffed the German. He straightened his tie and sighed quietly to himself. Everyone was just so childish and irresponsible today. If his brother was able to stay silent and not make a fuss about this, then everyone else should be able to stop arguing for a moment and- what was he thinking, that's total bullshit.

"Ludwig! Ludwig, can I be in your group? I can make us some pasta is you want!"

"You are not going with the potato bastard, no way!"

_Oh gott. Here we go again._

-B.O.A.F-

Ludwig was almost at the end of his patience; this was taking far too long. He had no idea why his palms weren't bleeding yet; he must have sunk his nails into them so hard that his grip could crush iron. At least it was a little quieter now; everyone had finally calmed down a little bit.

"Let's run over the teams one last time, ok?"

"_Ja_, urm… Francis, Toni and the awesome me are Team Fromage-Tomate Wurst!" proclaimed Gilbert proudly. Ludwig resisted the urge to slam his head onto the desk. He barely just managed it.

Fratello, the potato bastard and I are on Team…," Lovino sighed, defeated, "Pasta."

"Yay, Pasta!" exclaimed Feliciano. His twin grunted dismissively.

"And that leaves _Angleterre_ and _Amerique_. Team Supply Cupboard," purred Francis happily.

"When are we letting them out by the way?" asked Antonio.

"Kesesesesese, after they're finished shagging each other, or what ever they do in their spare time," Gilbert snickered – he'd perked up considerably after helping his brother drag the two English speaking nations across the hall and cramming them in the tiny room. Then locking the door.

He wondered briefly whether Arthur had stopped swearing and trying to dent the door yet.

Come to think of it, probably not.

-B.O.A.F-

"Fucking twats, I will string up every last one of them by their bloody entrails, cut out their buggering hearts whilst they're still fucking beating and shove it right up their pompous, fragrant ar-"

"Arthur, dude. Chill"

The Brit took a shuddering breath and stopped pounding the door with his fists. They were throbbing slightly. He could feel panic slowly rising in his chest, pushing its way past all his frustration. _The room was just so damn cramped._ The lights were dim – the fluorescent bulbs were flicking madly, like strobe lights, and were becoming slightly disorientating. Light, dark, light, dark: coloured strips clouded his vision from the flashing and he nearly stumbled forward over Alfred – who certainly wasn't helping the situation. Legs splayed in stupid directions, leant up against a wall, the American was somehow sitting in a corner _and_ taking up all the available room at the same time. In comparison with Arthur, however, he was incredibly relaxed by the whole thing; in fact he seemed to be currently playing Snake on his phone.

"Hell yeah, high score!" the young nation punched the air triumphantly. Arthur sighed and leant back against the doorway, feeling immeasurably tired all of a sudden. The others should be finished soon, right? He swallowed. They'd better hurry up; it was getting awfully stuffy in here. He tugged and his collar uncomfortably, tutting under his breath. Now that he thought about it, it was really quite stifling in here. Arthur eyes wandered to Alfred; he still sat in the same position, largely unaffected by the temperature – bar a dim sheen of sweat growing on his forehead that shimmered in the flickering light. He hadn't seemed to notice. Arthur assumed he was probably used to it.

"Bloody hell. Whatever happened to air conditioning?" Even though it's probably not on this time of year, he remembered unhappily.

"What was that man?"

"Nothing," grunted Arthur, "just a little hot in here is all."

"Too much for you am I, old man?" the American laughed, throwing a quick wink Arthur almost missed in the inconsistent light. Arthur threw something in return: a staple gun.

"Don't insinuate things like that!" he growled threateningly, but he could already feel his cheeks burning up – from anger, obviously. "It's your fault we're in here in the first place! I've told you a million times that bringing someone's mother into the argument is not only childish but also incredibly disrespectful!"

The man rolled his eyes. "Geez, don't get y' frilly knickers in a twist. I got this," he mumbled as he stuffed his phone in his pocket and pulled himself to his feet. Dusting his trousers off, he began digging around in on of his other pockets for something. His face suddenly lit up. "Ah-ha!" he pulled a credit card from the depths with a flourish – a flourish that scattered sweet wrappers all over the floor.

"And what are you going to do with that? Order pizza?"

Ignoring Arthur, he leant past and stuck the card in the thin opening next to the lock and began to jiggling it up and down furiously. Thinking about it, he should have probably given Arthur time to move away. Then again, it offered him no small satisfaction at the squeak he let out at the sudden proximity.

"Fucking hell, Ig! Calm your tits; I'll just be a second," Alfred chuckled, wiggling the card furiously. Arthur let out this strange hybrid noise that sounded like a splutter and a whimper at the same time. Then, the lock clicked.

"SCORE!" he yelled and reached for the handle.

Just as the door flew open by its own accord.

The two nations toppled without a door to support them, landing in a heap with an "oofph!" Alfred heard Arthur groaning (in pain?) underneath him.

"Kesesesese, I told you we should have left them a little longer," snickered Gilbert from above them, "they haven't finished yet."

"Urgh, I have interrupted _l'amour_. I am ashamed of myself."

"Huh?" Alfred scrunched up his face in confusion.

"Alfred," Arthur hissed to him, "Get. Off."

"Oh. Oh right, shit." Alfred back-pedalled to his feet, yanking a flustered – and somewhat crushed – Brit to his. Arthur turned away from him pointedly, huffing as his brushed invisible dirt of his brown suit.

"So," Alfred coughed, "what's up?"

"Well, while you two were having fun in the cupboard-"

"GOD'S SAKE LOVINO! Why does _everyone_ think we're secretly shagging each other?"

Lovino ignored the Brits ranting and pressed on: "We decided on groups and made a list of places each is visiting." He held out a folded piece of paper to Alfred, which the American took.

"Sweet, whose group am I in?" asked Alfred, unfolding the paper. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach at the words circled at the top.

"Team…supply cupboard?" he whispered, glancing up to see what he had been dreading: everyone staring at Arthur.

"Oh hell…"

**And that's all I've got for now! **

…**I had too much fun writing about the cupboard, really.**

**Also, about France, Spain and Prussia's team name: it felt weird that they could call themselves the "Bad Friends Trio" in front of other nation, plus I wanted a more original name. There's also something special about the name I want you guys to try and spot~**

**Au Revoir!**


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